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The Pen

la fierté du silence

By Timothy James LanePublished 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 1 min read
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My hours are falling heavier and longer

Shards of empty pots remain scattered about

I have forgotten where to find the sacred ground

And the weightlessness of it vexes me needlessly

My father said he had missed me, until he died

Now he visits from time to time

A hole in the shadow on the barren wall

The living don't look back at me anymore

All I can hear now is the heartless speaking

Their wretchedness a gainful virtue

And my friend who suddenly became the ocean

Just yesterday we were dropping stones

into the old well off the path

Casting dry cattails like smoke bombs

Years ago he stranded me here, by his own hand

Ever since I have haunted my own skin

My head filled with unkempt sleep

Taking unconvincingly to glass bottles

But whisky is a prop that doesn't fit

As are the unfinished turns of the pen

All those decrepit men at the gate

Those bearish, surly Bukoswski wannabes

Like the dust of deserts suffocating fertile fields

And of the women at my door, I remember you

Sirens and asphalt, beautiful anvils with wings

& how we would read other's hearts like braille

The hands which cupped your face

Amidst our fused voices, persisting

We remember things we don't want to know

The sun-showers rinse our tongues of regret

Night remains a dark cloud full of voices

Some summers they will drop like flies

And we will leave with nothing

but the pride of silence

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Timothy James Lane

Sea Ghost

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